


Loved Within Walls

by Yass_Rani



Series: Desi Good Omens [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens (TV) RPF, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angstyyyy, F/M, Or Is It?, Other, Unrequited Love, i hope this is good, idek, its a slight warning, probably is?, you will tear up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:08:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25239760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yass_Rani/pseuds/Yass_Rani
Summary: Aziraphale manages to find himself entangled in Salim and Anarkali’s love story, Crowley tags along.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Salim/Anarkali
Series: Desi Good Omens [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823968
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Loved Within Walls

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like it! Please like and leave comments! I appreciate everything! You can message me or send an ask to be tagged or send in a prompt on my Tumblr: yass-rani

_Post-notpocalypse, the bookshop, Soho, London._

The light from the fireplace flickered, glinting off of leather spines, polished wood and wine glasses, while the scent of wine and burning wood mixed in the air.

Crowley lounged on his usual couch and Aziraphale sat primly on his armchair, next to him. They’d gone through three bottles of wine, and talked for about 6 hours – the N’armageddon, as Crowley referred to it, had given them relief from their respective head offices and the two immortals had nothing but time on their hands now.

The conversation had shifted from eras, the garden of Eden to Noah’s Ark, Rome to Greece and Shakespeare to Valmiki. And now they idly chatted about their time in India as they sipped on wine, staring into the flames as if they somehow acted as a mirror to what happened centuries ago – the fire did seem to move along with Aziraphale’s recollection of events, almost like it remembered as well as Crowley did.

\---

_Sometime around 1590, Lahore, present-day Pakistan._

Akbar was enjoying his little soireé.

He’d visited Lahore and held a little gathering in his court – the best musicians in the land played their wonderful tones, as the multitude of painters and poets created their own worlds in tandem. It was a symphony of arts, just like the emperor loved.

He was sitting on a dais, lounging over a hoard of soft throws and the land’s softest cushions as he chatted to Aziraphale about the latest books and philosophies around the world, pausing only to listen to the music or the occasional poet to come forth and recite verses. Akbar had met the man on one of his journeys and found him very intriguing – then tagged him along in his caravan to Lahore, hoping he would eventually rope him into staying at his court for a few more weeks.

The music started to fade, prompting the gathering to look at the entrance of the huge hall, as an ensemble of dancers gracefully glided through the elegant, carved arches, the lamps’ lights shining off their golden silk lehengas and richly delicate jewellery.

A sitar started to strum from the group of musicians, as the women took their places in the centre of the hall. One of them walked to the front of the arrangement, her anklets clinking to the gentle twangs of the sitar. The entire court was motionless, captivated by her sheer beauty and elegance – Her honey brown eyes glowed, accented by the gold jewellery she adorned, and her tanned skin complimented the golden silk she wore as her rich, long brown hair waved down right to her waist, shining in the soft light of the hall. She quietly bowed to the dais, Akbar acknowledging her with a slight nod of his head. Permission for the musicians to start.

The music played softly at first, then louder, entrancing everyone while the dancers twirled around, skirts flaring out. The woman at the front curtsied and glided back to join the group as they moved across the room with a grace angels envied.

That last part was true. Aziraphale actually did envy the women for a second.

The ladies danced and danced, singing along to the music and twirling around, the clinking of their jewellery only adding to the ensemble as the entire court kept looking at them in awe – it was one of the most graceful dances they’d ever seen, and Akbar made a mental note to personally talk to whoever decided to have these dancers in the soireé.

The show seemed to end too soon – everyone was still too mesmerized to realise, however, but the woman went up to the dais when Akbar nodded at her and after exchanging a few quiet words, he pressed a bag of gold coins into her hand with a kind smile that mirrored hers, and Aziraphale’s as he complimented the dancer.

She retreated back to her group, as all of them sank to the floor in a deep bow and turned around, walking out in perfect synchrony.

In all the hullabaloo that rose right before they reached the doors, no one saw a young man slink away from a secret passage to the garden in front of the hall – waiting for the dancers to emerge outside.

No one except Aziraphale, that is.

\---

A couple hours later, Aziraphale decided to take a stroll in the garden. Akbar had said they’d be returning to Delhi in a few days and the angel wanted to see as much of Lahore as he could in that time.

Walking across the roses, he heard a soft voice from behind a wall of creepers – Salim.

Aziraphale stood there, smiling as he listened to the prince's monologue on how beautiful the dancer was. He compared her likeliness – Anarkali, he called her – to the roses in the garden, the sun’s warmth and the moonlight streaming through the trees in the garden on a full moon’s night.

Noteworthy to mention, Aziraphale found himself thinking exactly those things when he thought about Crowley, and although he stayed in denial with himself, he couldn’t help but realize the poor prince was hopelessly smitten – being the romantic, compassionate angel that he was, he hoped Anarkali was too.

\---

 _Miraculously_ enough, Salim found himself meeting Anarkali a multitude of times. His father had been inviting her to a lot of his soireés these days – and the word was around that the woman had quickly become his favourite dancer.

He’d even found the courage to confide in Aziraphale and ask for help once he figured out the new visitor was the only person he could tell about his lover. The angel had found out that her name was, in fact, Nadira Begum, and the emperor had named the dancer Anarkali – ‘pomegranate blossom’ – in honour of her rosy complexion.

The prince would meet her, after every performance that week, at the same spot in the gardens of Lahore – the angel’s grove, he called it. They’d lie on the grass, chat and court in secret, while Aziraphale did his best to keep intruders out, the hell with strongly worded notes from head office about miracles.

This went on for two weeks, until Akbar decided he should return to Delhi with his son.

That night, the lovers separated with heavy hearts, with promises and vows of meeting again, as Aziraphale reassured them that he would try his best to bring them together again, because, at this point of time, it seemed as if one couldn’t live without the other.

\---

True to his word, Aziraphale did a couple of miracles here and there to make sure the emperor commissioned Anarkali to dance in his Delhi court as well – which didn’t take a lot of effort, he did like the girl a lot.

And thus it continued. The lovers courted for months, meeting in abandoned courts and silent gardens, in the darkest nights and quiet days. They talked of the stars and made promises of lifetimes, rushing to hide and giggling in crevices they’d hide in – and the angel looked over them. He’d seen a beautiful romance blossom, he’d seen young love, he’d _felt_ it and he did his best to keep them safe, keep them happy, not once hesitating to use a miracle if it meant they’d stay safe.

Alas.

One fateful night, the pair sneaked out into a garden, without Aziraphale knowing.

The angel was in his room, reading quietly, maybe thinking about someone himself.

\---

Maybe if Aziraphale looked out the window, he’d have seen it happen.

He’d have seen Akbar dragging Salim by the ear as Anarkali rushed behind him, pleading the furious emperor to let her lover go, that she would do anything if Salim went unpunished.

He’d have seen the emperor stop moving for a moment, the horrible scowl still set on his face.

Aziraphale wouldn’t have been caught unawares the next morning if he’d looked out the window, but fate wasn’t having it.

He strolled into the garden, early in the morning, enjoying the flowers and the sunlight peeking through the clouds – his reverie disturbed by a pleading voice and bare grunts in response. He walked towards the source and –

Anarkali was being cuffed to chains on the wall of the garden, as Akbar stood on the side with an unmoving expression on his face – an expression Aziraphale had never seen – and menial workers from the palace construction were building walls around her.

And Salim was nowhere to be found.

He looked at Anarkali, brows furrowed in confusion and anger, as she simply let them chain her and shook her head so minutely he would’ve missed it if he wasn’t looking that hard. As the walls came up faster than ever, she was pleading with her eyes, her gaze towards the angel unchanging, and to the regular person, it would look like she was asking Aziraphale to free her, but he knew the girl better.

She’d confided in him once, told him that no matter what happened to her, – because it was inevitable that something would happen – Aziraphale’s priority should be looking out for Salim first, before helping her in any way.

She’d made him promise.

The angel was going to see it through.

\---

That night, he’d contacted Crowley, who surprisingly showed up the next hour – apparently he was in the area and arrived as soon as he received Aziraphale’s message.

Rushing to the garden as soon as he saw a snake near the apple trees, he confided in the demon about the recent events, and asked him to help, to which Crowley immediately agreed (not because he liked Aziraphale or wanted to help a love story, of course not. It was most definitely because making the lovers run away would be a _terrible, heinous sin,_ and he was tempted to do it.)

The demon had slithered underground into the bricked prison the emperor had made for Anarkali and quickly miracled her out of the chains and walls – posing as a miraculous saviour magician who only wanted to save the dancer and her lover.

Aziraphale, in the meantime had found Salim in a room, locked in so he had no way to escape and meet Anarkali. He assured him the lady would be safe, and relocated to a safe place in Lahore until Salim found a way to escape from the palace. Although the prince was skeptical about having to wait so long, he agreed for the wellbeing of his lover.

And thus, Aziraphale met Anarkali near the entrance of a tunnel and urged her forth, rushing to avoid the palace guards and through a secret road to the outskirts of Delhi, into Lahore as Crowley miracled himself over before them and set up everything for her arrival, making it as discreet as possible so none except themselves, and Salim would be able to find the lady thereafter.

Aziraphale’s rushed goodbye to Salim, and the two immortals bringing Anarkali to safety as they left them both with a promise of meeting their respective partners was the last time they’d see the young couple.

Little did they know, however, that Akbar would find Anarkali before Salim did, and make sure she would never show herself to his son again.

They had no way of knowing, neither did Salim.

\---

_Back to the day sometime after the notpocalypse, A.Z Fell bookshop, Soho, London._

As the two beings recollected the last of the events, they sighed – a collective quiet washing over the place as they each mulled over what happened after, because neither had been able to go back until the next century, which was useless as they would’ve obviously died.

“I’m gonna sober up now. D’you wanna go?”, Crowley blurted out.

“Go where?”

“Lahore.”

Aziraphale looked up, eyebrows furrowed slightly – only to realise Crowley was actually being serious, he’d sobered up and was staring at the angel, waiting for a reply.

“To- to check on them? Crowley, obviously-”

“No, angel, to see what happened,” Crowley interrupted.

Aziraphale nodded, and sobered up with a slight shake of his head, grimacing as the bitter aftertaste of quite a lot of wine hit his senses.

Within two minutes, they stood in the middle of Lahore.

Except, they looked for records and libaries, asked people and looked for plaques, but found nothing.

Aziraphale decided they should look for the Lahore garden.

\---

They stood in the middle of the garden, now overgrown, but still every bit the rich, beautiful piece of land Akbar had gotten built centuries ago. It was night, and it was just like the day Aziraphale found the blossoms of young love – the full moon’s light cascaded through trees’ leaves and roses blossomed all around the little alcove in the corner.

The angel’s grove.

It didn’t look like much had changed except for the growth of weeds through centuries, but as Aziraphale walked towards the spot Salim first met Anarkali at-

There was a tomb.

Made of gray marble, intricately carved all along, words in Urdu set into the stone.

“ _Ta qayamat shukr goyam kard gar khwish ra,_

 _Ah! gar man baz beenam rui yar khwish ra_ ,” Aziraphale whispered softly, kneeling beside the tomb and running his fingers along the letters.

“Huh? What’s that mean angel?”

Aziraphale looked back at Crowley, tears glistening in his eyes, threatening to fall onto the smooth stone of the tomb, as he translated, voice shaking:

“Could I behold the face of my beloved once more,

I would thank God until the day of resurrection.”


End file.
